The Cloak
by crownthehound
Summary: "Something about the cloak brought her comfort, and gave her strength. Touching it, feeling it against her skin, was like a small prayer to the Warrior."


"I've got a gift for you, sweetling." Father said, clasping his hands together and smiling at her.

Alayne closed her book and sat up straight to smile back. "A gift, father? What's the occaision?"

"Think of it as an early wedding gift." He opened the door and two of her maids carried in a chest that looked familiar. They set it down and left quietly. Father looked at her expectantly.

"A chest?" She walked over to the chest, slowly opening it, and suppressed a gasp.

"I had it smuggled out of King's Landing when the Queen sought to burn all of the Stark girls' possessions." He explained. "It was the only thing I could save of hers, sweetling. You'll look over it until she arrives, won't you?"

"Yes." Alayne whispered, running her fingers over the soft lace and silk of the gowns.

"Now, while I don't think it would be appropriate for you to go around wearing another girl's dresses, I'm sure if you tried them on in the comfort of your room, no one would notice." He crossed his arms with a playful expression. She suddenly became wary.

"I would have to dismiss my maids, and bar my door, so no one would catch me. I'm sure Sansa would be so displeased knowing another girl wore her clothes." Alayne played along, but she didn't lie. Sansa would've been uncomfortable with the thought of anyone else wearing her dresses.

"I'll leave you to it." Petyr grinned and left the room. Sansa quickly barred the door behind him. She didn't know why he would do this, what the point to it even was, but she didn't question it again the moment the door was barred.

She went over to the chest and picked up one of the dresses. It had been new, one of the ones that Cersei had made for her before forcing her to marry.

Sansa ran over to the windows, drawing the curtains shut, before pulling off all of her clothes until she was entirely bare. She took undergarments from the chest and clothed herself with them, along with the soft stockings and eventually the dresses. It was difficult dressing so finely by herself, but she took her time.

When she was finished, she looked in the mirror at herself. She didn't know why, but she expected her hair to be red again, and was disappointed when it wasn't. Still, wearing gowns that Cersei had picked and paid for while posing as a lowly bastard girl in the Vale was a small, sweet revenge.

The soft fabrics felt so good on her skin she thought she might cry. It had been so long, _so long._

She went over to the chest again to search for a pair of shoes or some jewelry, but as she reached in, her fingers brushed a coarse fabric. Her heart leapt into her throat and she found she could not draw her hand back from it.

She had forgotten about it. How _could_ she have?

She glanced over to the door, and it was still barred, so she pulled out the cloak and stared at it. It looked the same as the night it was given to her. It was torn and burned and stained, covered with old blood and grime. It was The Hound, and yet it wasn't.

Sansa could not say why she had kept it, but she had. Many nights in King's Landing, she had barred her door like she had tonight and wrapped it around her shoulders. Something about the cloak brought her comfort, and gave her strength. Touching it, feeling it against her skin, was like a small prayer to the Warrior.

She only stopped when she had spent her nights awake, thinking of Willas Tyrell. She could not wrap the cloak around her shoulders then. She did not know why.

And when they forced her to marry the Imp, and her maiden's cloak was stolen from her and replaced with a Lannister one, she wanted to rip it off and throw it on the floor. At that moment, she only wanted her stained cloak in her chest to bring her the strength she had lacked at that moment.

She never wore it when she was married to Tyrion. She was afraid he would know. He was so smart, and he always saw right through her. Surely he would've known. She was thankful that he never felt the need to go through her things, or he would've found it on his own. She wondered what he would say to that.

He probably would've been offended. She did not want to accept _his_ cloak, but she kept the cloak of_ The Hound_ in her chest, under her summer silks, and cherished it? Yes, he would've been offended. She remembered that The Hound and Tyrion did not much like each other. She wondered why.

But she could not help herself at that moment. She checked once more that the door was barred, and wrapped the cloak around her shoulders. Instantly, she felt safe. She felt strong. She felt as though she could face down Cersei, and Joffrey, and Tyrion, and Littlefinger, and evreyone who sought to hurt her without fear so long as she had that cloak.

So she slept that night with the cloak wrapped around her, and forgot to unbar the door for her maids in the morning. When she woke to the frantic knocking on the door, she stuffed the cloak back in her chest and opened the door for them, apologizing.

Yet she manged to make the same mistake for another three nights in a row. She could not help it. The cloak was the only real comfort she had been graced with for such a long time. It made her feel so safe, and she wanted that feeling constantly.

Then one night she forgot to bar her door, and her maids caught her with it. They gasped at it, afraid she had hurt herself, and she scrambled for a lie.

"No, it was mine, a long time ago... I-I made it, white because of the church, and-and- there was a fire, and it didn't burn. It's holy, I think. I must keep it."

It might've been the worst lie she'd ever told.

Of course, the maids ran to Littlefinger and in a matter of hours he was visiting her in her room. She had tucked the cloak neatly in her chest by that time.

"Your maids have told some interesting tales about you, my dear." He clicked his tongue. "They said you were clutching a bloody rag to your shoulders."

"I..." Her throat went dry, and she curled her tongue in her mouth to try to moisten it again. "Father, I can explain, you see-"

"No need, my sweet." He shrugged at her, walking past and opening her chest. He pushed her dresses out of the way and held it up. "You forget that I was in King's Landing at the time you received it, as well as Varys. The both of us knew, although we could not say why he had done it. He's such a confusing man. I thought you'd burn the cloak, but Varys said you would keep it. And so you did, I suppose. Varys is a fool, but even a fool is right sometimes."

"Please, don't be cross with me, Father."

"Why did you keep it?"

The question struck her dumb. "I don't know. I... When I hold it, I feel... _safe_."

He stared at her for a long time with a strange expression on his face before pressing the cloak into her hands. "Well, I'm not sure why Sandor Clegane's cloak could ever make you feel safe, but you don't need it now. You're safe here, with me." He smiled. "And we don't need your maids worrying over you and that Kingsguard cloak again. I want it gone by tomorrow. Is that clear,_ little bird?_"

She flinched at that. "Yes, father."

But when he left the room, she knew she could never throw the cloak out. She did not feel safe with him. Littlefinger may have taken her away from King's Landing, but she doubted he would keep her safe. She decided she must think of a good hiding spot for her cloak. A place that she could keep it, until she took it with her when she left the Vale, one way or another.


End file.
